With something drifting and something shifting, the earth still held the sky.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

While he was sleeping (Poems from my trip to Mc.Leod’s Ganj)

We were at St.John’s church. Just A and I. If mist could be melodious, it was. The graves were somber, cold, and peaceful. Beyond that, there were large, tall trees that played with the fog the way long fingers work through yarn.

A was tired, so he put his head on my lap and slept.

I was inspired, so I wrote.I]

There are solid cubes of rocksParts of an unfinished wallWonder what they’re there forTo alleviate or to stallPassage of lazy timeOr quivering lapses of historyOr hush and give a logical endTo sudden bursts of mystery.

II]

The scene hereIs mechanized to be a poet’s penThe trees weave stories of ‘How’s’The clouds sift through texts of ‘When’But fodder for poetryComes either to the imaginativeOr to the braveNot too manyTread to find tumultIn a quiet, historical grave.

III]

I keep writing versesAs my husband is in slumberAmidst ancient memoryAnd seemingly vintage lumberIn the fashion of a Byron’s poem,His breaths leave a trail of nuances takenFrom pools of dreams and memories, stirred and shaken,But now, I simply waitFor my sonnet to awaken.